Matt Ramsey

POST SCRIPTUM

Roger Williams

Ginger Easley

lost
Dark as night
Night in lights
Slim lines of neon
Strings forever stretching
to infinity.
Scrape against Horizon’s blade
The undertow wants to play
Liquid lights
seduce you
and swallow you away.
Sink into its brilliance
Lose yourself
Enter eternity
into the immense Sea of Lies.
Go into the nights
of lights
and promise
The cruel things said in the night
Let it guide you
The Mixed Media plows on a kiss
while the Fauvist grants you
one more wish.
Oh, Hope
Oh, Guide
Hold my hand as I drift into sleep
and dive into the pool of drowning sheep
where I make friends with Promise and Complete
These dreams
My dreams of peace.
Calm my spirit
Comfort my soul
this hollow place
this gaping hole
with a light of promise
The cruel things said in the night
Don’t misguide me.
Say good-bye
Say goodnight
to all that may be
all above and below me
in the valley
The valley of dreams.
Onward march
to the beat
to the sounds of marching
and misguided feet
that step out
into an ocean
The Ocean of Deceit.
Let’s meet in delight
and gaze into the Neon Light
Wrap our thighs around iluminii
and drink from tubes of red, green, and white
Coiling up the strings of days that become night.
The anchor pulls me into the deep
Its noose wraps around my feet
And I welcome the sink
into the underneath
Words of malice make the sound sweet
and sing in chorus under a bedroom sheet
Slowly creep the midst of fog and haze
like all I’ve known, the days of daze
because of the promise
and the cruel things people say.
Awake and say good-bye
to a lie
where the nights resemble days
of those promised dreams that go away
the cruel things that people will always say
to a dream
to a trance
to being asleep
and its lucidity
to the reality
and its fluidity
of being lost..in Sin City.

Timothy Ogene

Where You Are, There You AreI
Portland, Me
He hit the city center, charging down
Congress street. Portland
slept in the mild Maine summer.
He turned off the headlights that was,
of course, a dim drop in the flood of bright
city lights;
light on light is bad for our fragile planet
he thought out loud.
Before dawn unmasked the sun,
he shaved, picked up his car key...
dropped it on a second thought.
He’d bike out of the city to embrace nature
where nature is calm and
waiting for kindred spirits like him.
II
Kru Town, Liberia
Outside the city hall, between the feet of
the Cape Mount and the lip of Lake Piso,
a weak yellowish-red light squints atop
a rusty pole,
proud in its aloneness as the
only streetlight awake
By day fed by the sun,
at night in service to the same spot -
one dot in a flood of complete darkness,
bright as it could but out-powered by the
frail strength of passingglow worms
I walk the 45min. Walk to my beachfront house
where I share land with shit buried in sand and
garbage ejected by the ocean spat out
and back to shore
I start my Yamaha 650VA generator
for its daily
3hr 7-10 night run.
The whole street empties
into my room. Manchester
United was up against Liverpool –
My good pal walks in
10min. to the end.., exhausted
and upset; the 1hr
downhill walk, through the peaceful green
forest, to watch these soccer games suck.
The Woodcutter
The woodcutter’s axe rises above his head,
positioned to split him in half from brain to bottom
falls on the still wood,
sending splinters in the air,
splitting the lifeless wood against its will.
He pauses to wipe sweat from his brow
and ponders how much more trees aflame
would save us from the cold hands of winter.
Pink
Pale pink nightgown
hanging down and loose
on a four inch nail driven deep
into the top middle
of the entry door facing the
window that glassed off the world without
; another apartment building
with wide windows and torn
screens stood across the street.
Two floors down
cars run in silence up and down Fore Street.
A homeless man with a cane
walks against the green light
smiling at the impatience around him
; shivering grips on wheels ready to release
the pedal to fly down
the street and disappear
in the cloud of city madness.
Up in her floor, Fore Street does not exist
; her mind walks away from them
; door firmly shut against time.
The pale pink gown hung there
dangling down and loose on a
four inch nail driven deep into
a fairly hardcore wood and entrance
to her room, her escape from the reality without
where cars honk and monks pray.
Commercials flicker in and out the TV
tuned down to a mere mime.
The steady Om of the freezer filled the room.
Back flat on bed
eyes upward and shut tight
hands in pants –
her breathe became the Om
the only steady Om
that filled the room.
Bonheur supreme"I have loved to the point of madness, that which is called madness,
that which to me is the only sensible way to love." - Françoise Sagan (1935 – 2004)
I did not believe in the madness
of love or the madness called love.
“it is for the unserious and shallow”
I thought. My ignorance and
pride plunged me deeper into the pit of loveless
sanity; that state of near death and lack of bliss;
a combination of suppressed emotions
and
outright stupidity.
What is love? I do not know.
If it is what I feel –
this endless rush of bliss …
then I believe.
What is madness? I do not know.
If it is this state of non-stop happiness,
I do not wish to return to that pit of loveless sanity.
What is sanity? I do not know.
If it is that solitudinal seriousness
that reveals itself as a blank
and
expressionless face,
it sucks.

A.J. Huffman

The Suggestion of Violation
The physical echo
of my desire
lies.
Forgotten.
At the base of your bed.
Wrinkled.
And ravaged.
It is a reminder.
A remainder.
A discarded skin.
Easily consumed
by your light.
But it isn’t a slip.
It cannot be ironed out
against another night.
It is gone.
But it is right.
And there are more.
Always more.
Layers.
Of me.
Still waiting.
For your teeth.
To rip them.
Free.
For Ecstasy’s Lion
The still-beating heart
of a virgin
is worth any price.
Once it has been removed.
From his skin.
But don’t rush it.
The beauty
is part of the take.
It peels so slowly.
An almost-grape.
Overripe.
It needs to be drained.
Of its soul.
And believe me,
these hands are perfect
ly designed.
And ready.
For all the intricate motions.
Of the crush.
Held to this Life
Touches fall
like hammers.
All around me.
Missing me.
My skin stands
unscarred by their pounding.
My bruises are inside.
Screaming to get out.
Aching for a vehicle
to bruise.
But I am labeled.
Restricted.
Condemned.
Abandoned.
The isolation is intolerable.
There is no place to go
but nowhere.
I am stuck in a vacuum
I cannot uncreate.
And I hate.
The sounds of life
that refuse
to swallow me.

Brad Liening

Blue
Wikibots tweet racist meat.
Thunder from podium dials
Black coverage for days.
Pristine experience mediated
Into ancient mumbled must.
Least offensive option.
The brain dies like snow.
The screen disappears into
Heavy swallow wing swag.
Industrial Farming Techniques
Porcine wonder at the slew,
Maximum slurry for afternoons
Sizzling in the light source.
Fang tap once for yes.
I’m gone astral and bummed
In the new millennium
Already rendering fat.
Expected cheap rot for everyone,
Blissful façade nearly smoked
Black in the congested eel tank.
Your meal comes cooked in gold.
Decapitated all the time for no.
Globalized Squat
A new role for Yemen rebels
Getting paid for HIV tests.
As religious tensions rise,
Communist elders take backroom intrigue to the beach.
After a step toward corporate restructuring,
A journey into the teeth of the bailout buzz saw.
Squatting is not considered
Acting in good faith,
Thus no legal recourse exists.
There’s data, but not for everyone.
Feed
Revolution times the multiplicative
Kill box plus a decade yielding
The most advanced video game
Making a billion, no sweat.
What luck for the dim undead.
Grind out grease burgers for hours
And what do you get.
Heart disease stank in your pants.
Bus pulp makes its way into your bed
And becomes a way of life.
Grim statistics on 24 hour repeat,
Vampire tentacles for faces.
Cheeses of the World
A whole solar system chumming
The channels with spectral whatnot.
It’s hard to know when to flea.
Crass warplane exploitation
Drives the tiny town deeper
Into cash-strapped has-been
Ghost story territory.
As unknowable as all the cheeses of the world,
The last good credit rating under siege.
Drought enabling blackout,
Yellow incisor mummification.
We sit and remember the good mutinies

John Grey

TO THE CHILD IN THE CASE
Had you not driven so crazily,
your smoking habit
would have killed you.
And if it wasn't for
the liberties you took
with other men's wives,
a highway crash would've
bought your farm.
And if it weren't for
your teenage heroin habit,
some jealous husband
would have shot you dead.
And if your mother hadn't
smashed your head in,
you'd have overdosed anyhow.
Be thankful
that the life she took
is really the deaths she saved you from.
PAIN METER
Hard to tell who's in the most pain.
Some moan at the merest twinge,
and others lie there mute as they take
the hardest of the punches.
Nurses refuse to referee.
Their sympathies are so widespread
as to be meaningless.
They feed pills to the dead,
panaceas to the living,
and they all go down the same.
And the doctor's more on terms
with Latin than with courage.
The man with gallstones
and the woman with cancer
are merely charts hung from
the foot of their beds.
At six o'clock, family, friends pour in,
fill up every available chair.
Their comforting is so generic
the local supermarket could bottle it,
stamp it with their brand.
Based on the evidence,
it's best to be in no kind of hurting.
My wellness versus your wellness
is not even a contest.
And, if it was, who'4 take the pains to judge.
THE JOB OF THE LIVING DEAD
Out of fear, they built a factory.
Trembling at the thought
of a populace
struggling to survive
without widgets,
they built an assembly line
to spit out a zillion
of the things.
The sheer horror
of a nation weighed down
by too much money in their pockets
and not enough product
in their homes
coalesced into
an advertising budget.
Thankfully, their funk lessened
as sales increased.
We'd see senior management
at our yearly company meetings,
the unholy dread
in their faces
long since exorcized by
share options and bonuses.

Kate LaDew

polaris
the north star is not constant
it is not bright
it moves and flickers
and if you are lost you cannot trust it
My compass rattles and I wonder if hoping,
if wanting home enough will get me there
the north star is not constant
it pulsates in size and tricks your heart
I don’t know if I have enough time
If you’ll wait long enough
I am looking up, up, up
wanting
you won’t be there it blinks at me, a million miles away
I hope I made you happier in some way
I dream that I’m falling
and I wait for the ground to rise against me
it’s the first dream I’ve had since I stopped drinking
I’m afraid it might happen every night
and those shot glasses I’ve stored on the top shelf
are shiny with dust
they glitter like diamonds
shopping
I hold my belly (because something not small, something not flat, something not smooth, something so not is a belly)
jangles like keys
like a distraction held up for children
I am not beautiful
barrier
it hurts a little to know you’re out there
smiling at everyone
innocent
it hurts a little
like a scar
like that little scar between my thumb and index finger
nearly lopped it off
breaking that flower pot against the window to get back in
it’s only a little thing
but tough
raised
I can feel it like a barrier
keeping my hands from being beautiful
I press on it when I’m nervous
remember how cold that dirt was
how I sat for thirty minutes before I stopped bleeding
and you never came over
I knead it and it won’t go smooth
just keeps living in me like a smile I can’t forget
It’s not that I want you again
It’s not that I hate you
I just wish I could open the paper, find out you died and finally be happy.
these buckets of fat
these buckets of fat I fill like water from a well
leave drops of remembrance on my skin
the shape I once held in my hands
the starvation I relished
the stares I needed
the smiles I craved
these buckets of fat will drown me some day
bloat and pucker ‘til it all falls away
and I can finally be the skeleton I always wanted

Alan Catlin

In Memoriam
In a sea of
tree stumps,
the naked man
crouching head
bent between
his quivering
knees, is covered
by tentacles of
men of war
jelly fish floating
as living clouds
in a livid sea,
twin lamps
shaped as light
houses, balanced
on his shoulders
blades, dull
beacons from their
twin Fresnel lenses
lost in this
blanketing, this
quicksilver sea
Burn Season
The man in his
Sunday suit is
walking toward
the fire break
dominating the
horizon walking
with his plastic
bags of water,
store bought
fish still inside.
In one hand
he carries a
unlit lantern,
in the other,
a candle.
These are the
tools of his
trade and he
will use no
others.
Reclamation
A man and his
twin are
unrolling baled
carpets of sod,
pushing them in
opposite directions
down dried fallow
fields.
The one wearing
a business suit
and tie, pushes
with his head bent,
grimly determined,
pushing against
the soft resistant
load.
The other is
dressed in a
vagabond's tattered
clothes, working
equally as hard
as the other,
but more slowly,
bothered by black
birds who peck
at his bare,
his tender skin,
teasing the flesh
exposing the bone.
The Visitation of the Wisemen 11/90after Stan Rice
follows the baited dancing bears on stage
of a medieval passion play, principle players
dressed as alchemists or court jesters in caps
and bells, only the trained monkey has a speaking
role, all the others struck dumb by visions
of plaster jesuses afflicted by stigmata, blood
fall in the shape of a cross small relics are pinned
to as gifts for stuffed-with-straw rag doll babies
tied to wicker cradles shaped like caskets for
the purloined gifts strangers leave as offerings
to feckless gods and their mirror images that the sun
flashes back in code; none of the anointed can see.
Day Oneafter Stan Rice"Don't believe everything you read"
The wounds are extraordinary
once the bandages have been
applied as the two-sided mirror
clearly shows, plastic surgery is
a dying Art like necromancy
for beginners learning a new trade
on day one of intensive in-house
training shows. The basics are
sodden lumps for adding tone
beneath the false luster lacquer
finishes add to clear surfaces
like outer extremities of a body
so long laid in-state any change
is seen as an improvement: mottled
flesh, hair balls and knotted tendrils
that could have been veins if
the experiment has not failed,
if the patient had lived, had
doctors persisted and tried again.
The Card Playersafter Stan Rice
All the poker players are drawing
to an inside straight, spare cards
hidden up their sleeves, under ashtrays,
inside cigarette packets, even a mongrel
dog has marked ones beneath his folded
paws. All the players eyes are half-shut,
drooping, swollen as if wired that way
as part of some experiment in sleep
deprivation, alcohol abuse, rationed doses
of speed, cigar smoke and hashish brownies
they eat without chewing, the stubs of their
few remaining teeth discolored and stunted
after years of abuse. On the green felt
topped table, next to leather colored chips,
each man has a loaded handgun the last
player awake must use to shoot the others
once they have all fallen asleep. Smart
money is betting the shooter will kill himself
as well, after feeding the dog his last meal.

Matt Ramsey

angels
newsnow falls as
nightskies ink drops names
of words fall in & on
-to greener grass, rolled
up & in to blanketveils
& ankledeep until ideas,
revealed as feet, fall fast
into a summersnow of spring
-bound geese imprint; an
autumns falling feet fall
flat & free & evenly the
eve of day, the day before
the frost is found, in early
-mourninglight, itself, in star
-litskies & halos all about are
blaring in, engraved, as lines
fall flat, entombed, in knee
-deepsnow & clogged while
clogging on & thru a breadcrumb
course, of fallen st(e), in
summersnow, is found, as follow,
you, her feet, in print

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YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993 - 2012 by
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